


Threat

by darkangel_silvermoon



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Porn with Feelings, Season/Series 11 Spoilers, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-08-08
Packaged: 2018-07-25 12:31:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7532911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkangel_silvermoon/pseuds/darkangel_silvermoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The feelings were supposed to go away once Derek left the BAU. Cut the temptation off at the source. Didn't work out that way though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Don't Threaten Me With A Good Time

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo…how goes it?  
> Trying to perk my day up with some fic.  
> Fair warning.  
> This shall be smut… with a dash of angst and feels.  
> If not you cup of tea, I won’t be mad if you skip this fic.  
> No hard feelings, yeah?  
> Well lovelies, you know the drill.  
> Reid/review/enjoy

They were supposed to stop after you left him behind. 

The dreams.

The ones that leave the sheets tangled and damp with sweat. 

The ones that leave you breathless.

The ones that Savannah mistakes for nightmares.

You keep going with that lie because it’s better than the guilt you feel when you admit it to yourself.  
It was never that serious.

It was just a crush…

Lying to yourself again.

He means everything to you.

And you placate her, telling her to go back to sleep—sorry to disturb her.

The dirty dreams that leave your blood singing through your veins; that drive you out of bed.

Sometimes you throw on some pants and shoes, taking a walk around until your body calms down.

Sometimes it’s too much and you have to…take care of it.

You’d hold yourself up in your office, the door latched for privacy.

Guilt settling in your bones as your warm hands slide over your skin, wishing they were someone else’s.  
Wishing they were his.

Biting your bottom lip as you struggle to hold back a groan; calloused fingertips rasp against your nipple. A deliberate touch.

Your breathing coming faster now as your other hand dips below the waistband of your sleep pants, knuckles brushing against the base of your hardening cock.  
They were supposed to stop…these feelings. This ache was supposed to disappear.

You lift your butt off the seat, body thrumming with anticipation as you shuck off your pants, skin sticking to the leather seat as you settle again.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Your body craving another man’s touch.

But he’s more than any man.

He's your Pretty Boy.

And damn if that doesn’t make you want to go to town; the guilt a faint rumble in the background as you go in for the first full touch.

Heat floods you; rich, silky-smooth as you palm your dick, starting the slow rhythm. 

You push up in your chair as you chase the good feeling buzzing through your veins; beads of pre-come leaking over your knuckles.

You bite bottom lip, trying to smother the moans that threaten to escape. 

Tension coils in your belly as you imagine him straddling your thighs, his weight anchoring you to the chair. Your hand on his pale skin, what a beautiful contrast it is. 

Him pressing his forehead to your shoulder, hot puffs of breath against your neck as he twitches forward.

He reaches between the two of you, squeezes the base of your dick, not ready for you to come just yet.

Calloused fingertips traveling the head of your dick; he nips the side of your neck, leaving a trail of marks you wish would stay. 

You are his.

You’ve got to keep quiet…she musn't hear.

You whine, one had gripping the armrest on your desk chair, the other clenching against his thigh. 

And the feelings ratchet higher; a litany of muted curses and prayers spilling from parted lips. Your eyes squeezed shut as the tension grows taught.

It snaps; you come. Your mouth forms his name in a muted scream.

Reid. Spencer Reid.

Your dick twitches, body shaking as you spurt pearly ropes of cum on your belly; it drips down your knuckles.

He’s rushing through your brain as you come down; your chest heaving as you slowly catch your breath.

You reach over with shaking hands, opening your top drawer in the desk and pull out some napkins, dabbing at the mess on your belly and hands.

Eventually you pull your clothes back on, face heated with shame.

You get ready for a shower in the guest room, not ready to slide back into bed with your wife. Not ready for the convenient lie of nightmares and her concerned looks.

She's a good woman who deserves better than this.

A married man in love with his best friend.

Your heart always belonged to him.


	2. Pressing Flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You grieve not like a man who lost his friend, but one who lost his lover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So…hi.  
> Didn’t forget about this story.
> 
> Count down to season 12. Can’t believe we’ve made it this far.
> 
> Sperek forever.
> 
> This chapter inspired by The Civil Wars “Falling”. If you haven’t heard it… beautiful song to YouTube.
> 
> Title of the chapter from The Civil Wars, “Pressing Flowers”. 
> 
> As always I own nothing. Love ya

Your body aches.

It’s been weeks, you stare at the empty desk. 

You hear the new recruit will be here by the end of the month.

You are not one for change.

Everyone else seems to be moving on, but you’re stuck in your tracks...

You don’t think this is normal.

It’s not like he's dead; eyes wide and lifeless, at the hands of someone else.

He’s safer, happier where he is. 

You don’t grieve like a man who lost his friend or brother; but like a man that has lost his lover, his life partner.

Does it make you selfish that you want him here, by your side?

You never meant to get this attached. 

Involved.

Today's a wash, your thoughts going a mile a minute, you ask to finish your files up at home.

Hotch let’s you go; you’re grateful, making your way to the metro. People brush past you, darting about in the lunch rush.

You clutch your bag closer to you, your skin crawling with the want of isolation.

You make it to your apartment in one piece. And as you shut the door, you realize this may have been a mistake.

The silence is overwhelming. 

You are alone in this.

You slip off your shoes and loosen your tie.

You’ve got the feeling you will always be alone.  
He slipped through your fingers.

 

With each breath, the silence is glaring.

Sometimes you’ve got to be a little selfish.

He's under your skin. Tattooed on your heart.

He'd always belong to someone else.

You make your way to the bedroom, face hot with blush.  
Your clothes feel tight against your skin, binding.

Your fingers are unsteady as they work at the small, hard buttons on your work shirt. You hang it on the back of the chair in your room.

Your heart pounding in your ears, drowning out the silence. You're thankful for that.

He'll never be yours. 

You do this more often than you'd like to admit. The heat blossoming in your core, spreading to every inch of you.

You shuck off your pants, fold them haphazardly on the chair. Sock go on balled on top. 

Your bare feet pad against the cool hardwood floor as you head towards your bed, swinging your body to lay back against the headboard.

He's invading your thoughts, his warm hand on your shoulder as he laughs with you.

The way his fingers feel as they card through your hair. The puffs of breath against you cheeks as he pulls you close, whispering “Pretty Boy” in your ear.

You let out a groan as you lift your butt up, slipping the boxers off your hips, working until you can kick them to the end of the bed.

You let your hands run against your exposed skin, skimming over erect nipples, catching on your belly button as they make their way south.

You don’t imagine he’s here, that the touch of your hand is his; that’d be dangerous. 

You already want what you can’t have.

Your eyes flutter closed at the first touch. Hot fingers touching hotter flesh as you think of him.

The flash of caramel skin, after sparring, body loose from a warm shower in the gym locker room. A pang of embarrassment as he catches your eye, you scrambling to get dressed.

You run your tip of your finger along the thick vein on the length of your penis, watching in fascination as it twitches and hardens with each pump of your heart.  
It eventually lie heavy against your hip; pre-ejaculate beading at the tip.

This is not a hurried thing, you reach into your bedside drawer and pull out the lube you keep stashed there. You don’t need much as you squeeze it into your palm, tossing the tube somewhere on the bed. 

Your legs spasm at the first touch, you work out a slow rhythm. Blush creeping up your body.

You’ve done this more than you’d like to admit.

You’re a healthy man, this is normal…the masturbation bit. Think of your best male friend…not so much.

Memories play behind closed eyes as you thrust up into your fist, the slick sounds and your harsh breath taking up space in your room.

“F-fuck.” Your voice broken as you bite down on your bottom lip, pleasure ratcheting higher as you think of him kicking down doors, laughing at your awkward attempts at jokes, his hand lingering just a little too long on your shoulder.

You could have been a good thing.

You keep going, planting your feet against the bed as you fuck up into your grip, toes curling in the comforter as your other hand reaches and presses against your perineum.

You turn your head, mouthing against your pillow. Your hair irritating as it sticks to your forehead, sweat rolling off you. 

It’s becoming too much.

Your rhythm falters as you think of him dancing in a nameless club, crushed against his partner. 

It could have been you.

Your hips stutter as your thumb flits over the head of your dick. You contort your body a bit, curling to press two fingers into the tight ring of muscles. You open up, welcoming them into the tight, hot heat. 

“Come on, come on, come on.” Your voice sounds foreign in your own ears, as you wiggle, finding your prostate, you press and let go over and over again.  
Your testicles draw up, penis jerking in your hand as you release, grunts being pressed out of you as you orgasm, Derek’s name on the tip of your tongue.

You slump against your pillow as your penis jerks weakly when you slide your fingers out. You pull at the sheets, wiping the mess from your fingers and chest.  
Your harsh breath calming down as you stare at the ceiling.

You feel tired…a little empty.

You wish you didn’t want him the way you did.

You close your eyes to rest a bit. 

He would never love you anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This chapter has been bugging me to be written for a while. 
> 
> Thank you for the peeps that have stuck around.
> 
> Let me know what you think.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Whelp… porn-ish thing with *feelings*  
> Let me know what you think?


End file.
